CHAPTER XIX

Dull, misty, and gray, a cold damp morning in early March dawned upon
the mountain. The sun could not penetrate the dense clouds.

The ancient city of Medenus had long since been abandoned by its
Carthaginian and Roman founders and builders. Most of the houses,
constructed of stone from the mountain, stood deserted and ruinous.
Nomad Moors used the few which still had roofs as places of refuge in
winter. The largest structure was the former basilica. Here the King
and his household had found shelter. A scanty fire of straw and fagots
was burning in the centre on the stone floor. But it sent forth more
smoke than heat, for the wood was wet, and the damp fog penetrated
everywhere through the cracks in the walls, through the holes in the
roof, pressing down the slowly rising yellowish-gray smoke till,
trailing and gliding along the cold wall, it sought other means of
escape through the entrance, whose folding-doors were missing. In the
semicircular space back of the apses coverlets and skins had been
spread upon the marble floor. Here sat Gibamund, hammering upon his
much-dented shield, while Hilda had laid the scarlet standard across
her lap, and was mending it.

"Many, many arrows have pierced thee, ancient, storm-tried banner. And
this gaping rent here,--it was probably a sword-stroke. But thou must
still hold together to the end."

"The end," said Gibamund, impatiently completing the nailing of the
edge of the shield with one last blow of the hammer. "I wish it would
come. I can bear to witness the suffering--_your_ suffering--no longer.
I have constantly urged the King to put an end to it. Let us, let all
the Vandals,--the Moors can surrender as prisoners,--charge upon the
foe together, and--He would never let me finish. 'That would be
suicide,' he answered, 'and sin. We must bear patiently what God has
imposed upon us as a punishment. If it is His will. He can yet save us,
bear us away from here on the wings of His angels. But the end is
approaching--of itself. The number of graves on the slope of the
mountain is daily increasing.'"

"Yes, the row constantly lengthens; sometimes the high mounds of our
Vandals surmounted by the cross!"

"Sometimes the faithful Moors' heap of stones with the circle of black
pebbles. Yesterday evening we buried the delicate Gundoric; the last
scion of the proud Gundings, the darling of his brave father Gundobad."

"So the poor boy's sufferings are over? In